Worth The Shot

Butterfly Wings in the Sunset

Today's fanart is by @Sssapplebottomjeans ! (Boots with the fur. The whole club was looking at her. okay sorry, I'll stop.) I love the chaotic beauty of this drawing, it really encapsulates the conflicts of this second half of the story where Camilo doesn't remember y/n. The way the people and words are in grey and the butterflies and sunflowers are in blue seems so poetic.

BACK TO THE STORY

Your father had turned his gift on himself.

"Marcos, you idiot," Sebastian scoffed, frowning at his brother with the same disgusted pity you'd give a dying dog.

"Please, tell me where we are," Marcos politely asked, blinking from under his thick eyelashes. His head stupidly swung from side to side, drinking in the pastel pink morning sky and the gurgling crystal brook.

Sebastian unwaveringly regarded Marcos, and the pain darkening his green eyes surprised you. River water slicked off of his black jacket, intertwining with the foggy ghost designs that curled down his sleeves.

"Can we go home?" Marcos said, glancing to you with a baffled smile. Uncomfortable, you dropped your gaze down. Fat rainbow dewdrops beaded on the grass under your chilled bare feet. Drying blood, dark red, almost brown, stiffened the skin on your trembling hands.

Red. The crimson swirls blushing across the morning sunrise. The maroon burlap of your fractured father's shirt. The last color of Camilo, forever staining your hands.

"No," Sebastian unevenly mumbled in response to Marcos' impossible question. "We can't."

"But where is Lillian?" Marcos persistently pushed, worried lines carving crevices in his forehead. At your mother's name, Sebastian's flinched. Aggravated, Marcos paced closer. "Where is our home?"

"You used your gift to... to..." Gothel finally realized, beats behind, his eyes flashing wide. He unhelpfully gaped at Marcos, stressing your disoriented father further.

"Where is our home? Where is my wife?" Marcos demanded, wringing his smooth, large hands together like sopping cloths. Sebastian couldn't hold your father's panicked stare anymore. When his eyes met yours, they burned with the helpless remorse of a convicted criminal. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw.

"Speak, brother!" Marcos howled, clamping onto Sebastian's shoulders with a clawlike grip.

"Gone," Sebastian bluntly rasped, "They're both gone."

For a moment, Marcos froze, his thick jaw suspended in silent shock. Then he began to wail, a hellish, mournful song that hurt your heart. Sebastian's face distorted into a cold glare, but the dewy sheen of tears stained his lower eyelids.

Red. Your uncle's eyes. Your bloodstained hands.

You bit the inside of your cheek and knelt by Camilo's dying body. The wet grass stung on your knees. Gothel's beefy hands formed a rounded triangle around his stomach wound, futilely slowing the blood loss. He grimly pressed his full lips together, sympathetically lowering his eyes.

How do magnets find each other? How do stars collide? In the same way, your hand found Camilo's limp fingers.

It felt cold and fleshy under your touch. It wouldn't be long now. Your father howled with heart-wrenching grief. Sebastian fought tears. And you gently caressed Camilo's palm with your thumb.

A miracle would come soon, signifying the finality of your lover's death. You bleakly stared at the edge of the waters and waited.

In the pale pink dawn, a distant figure staggered across the muddy riverbank. It proudly stood, unafraid, arms extended like butterfly wings. Excess fabric flapped under its arms, softly rippling in the wind.

Your thumb stilled. Your father quieted. The wind hummed, splashing down the river.

The butterfly collapsed, thumping into the hazy brown mud. It peacefully melted into the dust, without a cry of pain, without hesitation.

As quickly as he came, he left.

A horrified cry erupted from the opposite side of the crystal river. Alma, adorned in heavy brown travelling robes, fearfully stared at the dead man, her wrinkled hand muffling her mouth.

"Alma!" You shouted, feeling a warm burst of relief at the Madrigal matriarch's return. Alma will know what to do. She will help, you dizzily prayed. But as your footsteps padded down the bank, you abruptly halted by the body.

You recognized the green hourglass patterns stitched into the billowing robe. You recognized the ashen skin. You drew in a painful gasp.

Bruno had sacrificed himself.

You hadn't payed enough attention. Like jagged silver threads, Bruno's telltale words wove a cobweb in your memories.

"He was in my first vision. And he's the reason one of us will die."

"I really, really don't want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever."

"I can't, I won't talk about it. Everything's getting clearer."

Bruno had known all along. He had known all along that he would die.

Alma wept, thudding to her knees and holding her elbows. You stood petrified, feet frozen by the silky black hair of Bruno's head. His eyelids peacefully rested shut. Had he dreaded this moment? When he crept alone in the dead of night, did he hesitate? Lean against a tree trunk, exhausted? Pity his tragic fate?

A golden candle emerged like a dripping sea serpent from the water. Glowing glitter swirled around you like a eulogy of yellow stars. Cruel river. With its spoiled game of sacrifices and proud display of magic.

Sebastian scowled and kicked the river with his shoe. It smugly flowed around him, only acknowledging your uncle's rage with a plunking spray of cold droplets that sizzled on your cheek.

Blinking back tears, Alma frowned and flexed her hands. Her pale-white skin stretched taught across her protruding bones and veins; yet there was an odd strength in the gesture. Without her shimmering moonstone necklace to block the miracle, had Alma received a gift of her own?

A brilliant ball of sun blazed in the heavens, bobbing among red-tinted clouds. Tangerine rays cut across the sky, sharp enough to make your eyes water. In the distance, scarlet dapples painted the sunrise.

You wistfully thought of a line from Bruno's starlit song. His play, his hurt, sloppy attempt at revenge.

I'll catch the next sunset, and swim in the light. A wish in my pocket to toss to the sky.

Was Bruno's soul up there? Shimmering through the crimson waves, traipsing along the golden clouds?

Don't you miss me, try not to cry
Run to the backyard, look up at the sky
I've laced up my wings, away I'll fly
A wish in my pocket to toss to the sky

Had he secretly intended this song for the Madrigals? A poetic apology, in pensive preparation for his death?

"Are you a sunrise person?" You thoughtfully whispered to Camilo, sweeping his dark auburn hair away from his forehead. He wouldn't respond, of course, bleeding out on the riverbank. But with a fierce, painful determination, you longed to share this last light of beauty with him.

"Everyone's a sunrise person."

"Camilo?" You froze, red fingers trembling. Your breath hitched, unsure. Dangerous hope thudded like adrenaline through your veins.

"I'm here, Mariposa," Camilo tiredly smiled, struggling to prop himself upright onto his elbows. Desperate joy hit you like a gust of hot summer air. The creation of the miracle had healed him. He wasn't gone, wasn't dead. He would be there to celebrate his next birthday, and yours, and to cheekily tease Isabella and tickle Antonio. He would be there to rope you into helping with mundane Madrigal chores and to grab you around the waist, laughing when you complained. He would splash you with chilly river water and dart out of reach like a sprite. He would kiss you under scattered stars and marry you in summer rains. He would be your Madrigal. Your lover. Yours. Forever and always.

A single, yellow butterfly delicately lighted on a river reed. It's wings tentatively fluttered, testing the air currents, before spiriting away. Up it flew, high into the golden sunrise colors and into the beginning of forever.